Clouded Judgement
by blogyourfeelings
Summary: Molly is furious with Sherlock for risking his life yet again.


Sherlock has chided her for being so obvious. They were waiting, just until the scan, until the proof of their creation was before their eyes, in gorgeous black and white._** It's only logical**_, Sherlock had said.

It was logical, but Molly did revel in the fact this secret was all theirs, forged of their own making.

Despite this exciting development going on in her private life, Molly's workplace has been unusually quiet. It's seem a ridiculous notion that the place for the dead should been so loud and full of life. But it is, with enthusiastic student interns, or her bumbling, chuckling boss Mike Stamford or Sherlock when he's on an exciting case.

Molly hums while she works just fill the silence. Sometimes the silence is utter relief because living in London means constant noise, and living with Sherlock Holmes is wearing on her eardrums at times.

The lack of excitement in the morgue allows Molly to focus on more generic tasks, including the mounting pile of paper work that has crying out to be done. She gets distracted in the last hour of her shift, her mind already home in Baker Street, curled up inbetween Sherlock and linen bed sheets.

Her phone buzzes in her bag takes her back to her cramped office. She rummages through her bag to retrieve it.

"Hey Molly," Greg greets when she answers. He sounds more like the policeman she knows he is than the close friend she is accustomed to. "I don't want you to freak out."

Her stomach plummets before she can even speak. She's always had a strong stomach, so she steels herself. Her voice is steady. "Freak out about what?"

"Sherlock's been shot," Greg replies bluntly. Molly has little time for her mind to react, just enough to conjure the last image of him she has. Just hours ago, perched in his seat, bathed in morning light, grinning as he leaned up to give her a goodbye kiss. The image is gone before Greg spills out the rest of his sentence. "But he's fine Molly, just a graze to his arm. It's nothing serious. I just wanted to let you know."

Molly puffs out a sigh of relief, her hand dropping from its place on her belly. "How'd it happen?"

"Bank robbery," Greg sighs too, but it's not in relief. "Some idiot was holding people hostage with a gun. Sherlock went in, tried to convince him to let them go."

Molly mulls over that explanation and still feels unsettled.

Spurned on by the pathologist's silence, Greg complains. "Didn't even tell me he was going in. The git didn't even put a vest on."

"Well thanks for letting me know, Greg," she manages to spit out. She hopes he's aware her annoyance isn't directed at him.

"I'm bringing him back to Baker Street with John," Greg informs her, seemingly ignorant to her simmering temper. "See you when you get back."

The line goes dead, but Molly's ire has just been born, hindering her abilities to thinking concisely.

All she can think about now is getting back to Baker Street, so she can throttle Sherlock Holmes.

The journey to Baker Street only aggravates her ragged temper. The cabbie, a smiling, balding man eyes keep drifting back to a proud picture taped to his dashboard of two smiling children. Her shoulders slump further down during the duration of the cab ride but once she reaches the door to Baker Street she squares them again.

She trudges up the stairs rather than stomp, because she doesn't want to her detective partner to anctipate her. As well, she can hear the clattering of plates which give away the fact he is not the only one habituating the space she has helped make both of their home.

John and Mary are on the big couch, the doctors arm wrapped around his wife waving to acknowledge Molly's entrance. Out of her view, Greg is trying to grab something to ease his famished stomach.

None of that matters because her eyes bore into Sherlock's as he stands from his seat. A troubled look passes across his face like a stormy grey cloud drifts across the sky. This seems to reignite her thunderous anger and she marches over to him with renewed purpose.

Her palm slams into his torso with force, to startle him, to put some space between them. She's not sure, because she cannot clear her mind of this awful, sapping fury that resides in her.

It barely puts him off balance, but Molly does not let him steady himself physically before she brings on the onslaught. "What were you thinking, you selfish idiot?!"

Her gaze falls on the bandage wrapped around his left arm. _**Just a graze. Could have been so much worse**_.

Her voice is only getting louder and shriller, with little care for the audience she has for her outrage. "You went into somewhere with an armed gunman without any protection? Are you fucking stupid?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but she doen't give him opportunity. She's already thought of his excuses. **_Time was of the essence. Its my job. You know what you signed up when you agreed to delve into a romantic relationship with_****_me._**

These excuses are meaningless to her, as meaningless as words carved into stone on a grave which the occupant will never read.

"Did you even take a second to think about me?" Molly asks, the pain in her chest causes her voice to recede. Her hand moves to caress her tiny bump. Her voice is nothing but a broken whisper. "About us?"

These words seem to hit Sherlock harder than any punch she could ever throw. He's struck speechless.

It's a rare sight for them all to behold, and the occupants of 221B are all caught in frigid, stunned silence. Mary does not dare even set her cup down as not to disturb the eerie silence. What their friends had thought would be amusing Molly Hooper style dressing down of Sherlock Holmes has turned into something far deeper, far more serious.

Molly has to break the silence, because it's suffocating and she feels like if she doesn't speak the crushing weight on her chest won't lessen. "Do you have any idea what it would do to me if something happened-"

The words, spoken aloud, only cause the weight to grow heavier. Its akin to a poison injected straight into her veins, the panic seeps into her bloodstream, right to her heart. It takes her breath away.

Her hand curls into her stomach, shuddering as she tries to calm herself before she causes damage to herself or the precious life that grows inside her.

Sherlock springs forward to clutch her forearms. "Breathe, Molly. You need to calm down," His voice has sickening desperation rooted in it. "Please, breathe."

It takes a minute, in which John poises himself at the edge of his seat should Molly require his doctor expertise. He only reclines back when he is reassured by the steady, even rise and fall of his friend's chest.

Molly shrugs herself out of Sherlock's hold. The poison is out of her system now, but still feels the grip of its after effects. She feels a sick, cold clarity.

"I can't sit around while you go and risk your life like it means nothing, Sherlock," She says, weary and exhausted. There is conviction in her eyes, Sherlock can spot it behind her tears. "Not now. I can't."

How can she trust him with their childs life, when she can't trust with his own? Molly has realised what he has feared she would as soon as the joyous words spilled out her mouth, on a warm Sunday evening, only a few weeks ago.  
_**Oh my god, I'm pregnant.**_

He aches to hear that breathy little laugh again, the one that echoes in his vast mind palace, disbelief and elation all wrapped into one little noise. Her back was turning on him, heading for the door and that noise would slip out his grasp if he didn't tell her the truth of today.

"She was pregnant," Sherlock declares as she reaches the threshold of the door. She's so close, so close to walking away. His voice stills her, loud and more assured than it deserves to be. "One of the woman in bank, she was pregnant."

She stays, stuck in her position, not turning back but she can't seem to edge her feet forward. His words jumble in her head. This isn't an explanation she foreseen because he told he kept his work and their romantic relationship separate. This isn't the Sherlock she knows, calculating and detached, with the ability to glance over the bodies of children without a flicker of emotion.

It's different now. She sees it now, sees him. _**Oh you fool, Sherlock, you beautiful fool.**_

She whirls back, jerking forward because her emotions and body movement are out of her control at the minute.

"I was reckless," Sherlock states, the blue of his eyes pronounced by brimming tears. His voice is raw, stripped of his usual cool detachment he uses in public. "I let sentiment cloud my judgement. I apologise, Molly."

Molly, for the first time, felt the weight of four pairs of eyes on her. It probably hadn't been best to carry this argument out in front of them all, to force him to admit his emotions to most of the people he holds dear.

He presses on though, focusing only on her. She's back in front of him, in touching distance and now he just has to show her why she has to stay.

"I went into that building because I was thinking about you," He explains, twitching to reach out and touch her. His hands reach forward, both his thumbs brushing either side of her abdomen. They both let out shaky breaths and watery pairs of eyes meet. "About both of you."

She flings her tiny arms around him, squeezing his waist tight. His chin rests on the top her head, breathing further apologises in her ear. Molly pulls back too quickly for Sherlock's liking.

"It's all right," she swallows. She strokes his cheeks and lets out that breathy little laugh he adores so much. Elation and disbelief, he feels too. "You just have to be more careful."

"I will," Sherlock vows, his expression solemn.

Awkward silence takes over the flat again as they both take notice of the witnesses to their revealing exchange.

John leans forward off his chair again, his eyes shifting between the couple in front of him and his beaming wife for an explanation. "So, you two, are going to...Molly is..." John fumbles, the words not fitting in a way that make sense to him.

Molly turns to Sherlock again with a rueful smile and a shrug. "Cat's out the bag."

He chuckles heartily and take her small hand in his as he steps back to allow himself to address their three friends at the same time.

"Me and Molly," Sherlock states then stops. He clears his throat nervously. "Molly and I are having a baby." They both grin at the pronouncement and any fear Molly has is erased, because the warmth in his voice gives her a good idea of the kind of father he will make.


End file.
